


A Dozen White Roses

by vanillafluffy



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Bane lives, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Ordinary Citizen, Post-Movie 3: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 17:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20568038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: A ordinary citizen of Gotham, Charley Richardsen is just trying to get his life back to normal after the long winter siege. A new customer comes to him with an unexpected request.For the prompt: "Lost it all"





	A Dozen White Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cozy_coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cozy_coffee/gifts).

Things are finally getting back to normal in Gotham, thank God. Charley Richardsen pushes his broom, sweeping off the sidewalk outside of Antoine’s Flowers. Reassuring, after the months of siege, to be able to accomplish this small, homey task, part of his daily routine for so many years.

He began as a driver for Antoine’s in high school, and his fortieth reunion was the year before last…. A long time, first driving the van, then helping inside making arrangements in the cold room and working behind the counter. When Lucie Antoine passed away, she’d simply left it all to him, saying he’d been like a son to her. Which was hardly the relationship they’d really had. Nowadays, he supposes they’d shrug and call Lucie a cougar, but when he was a youth, it would have been a scandal if the truth about them had come out.

Antoine’s is neither the oldest flower shop in Gotham, nor the biggest. That honor goes to Gotham Floral Design--but Antoine’s is first in the phone book and they’re in close proximity to The Acres, the oldest cemetery in town, at the far end of the Narrows. It keeps them afloat even in times like these.

It’s been a long winter. The sidewalk hasn’t been swept in a while. What with the blockade, Charley hasn’t had any new stock in months. He’s kept going by renting out the cold room to hold overflow from funeral homes overwhelmed by the anarchy running riot. The shop has been shuttered while Charley hunkered down in the apartment over it, watching old movies and pacing a lot.

Finally, the last of the bodies has been interred, the bridges have been repaired to the point that the island is receiving goods again. To the average Gothamite, that means being able to buy groceries, restocking pantries depleted by the isolated months. To Charley, it means having fresh flowers: carnations, gladiolas, daisies and roses--he’d never thought he’d be so happy to see baby’s breath and ferns, but unloading his first shipment in almost six months brought a lump to Charley’s throat. It’s good to have the lingering smell of death in the cold room overlaid by the fragrance of peonies and roses.

A man trudges up the street toward Antoine’s. He’s a big guy, broad-shouldered, hair so short it’s like boot camp. He moves like he’s in pain, poor guy. With all the rioting and street justice, a lot of people will never be the same. When he gets close, Charley sees a healing injury on the side of his head--a couple inches long, a nasty gouge that looks like something bounced off his skull. Ouch.

“Pardon me, are you open for business?” the man asks him. His breathing is labored. Sounds like he might be getting over something. 

It’s early, but after months of no business, he’s not going to turn a customer away. “Absolutely,” he replies with a smile. “Let me just get the last of this--I sweep up every morning, except lately. I’ve hardly dared stick my nose outside…okay, let’s get you taken care of.”

He pushes the door of the shop open for his customer, who glances down the street toward The Acres. Ah, so he’s suffered a bereavement. Best not to be too cheerful, then.

This fellow, hurting, maybe ill--he’s not dressed like money, that’s for sure. Battered work boots, a worn canvas jacket…he’s not going to be terribly lucrative, by the looks of him. Carnations, maybe. He has some black-tipped ones, he’ll make a good deal on them, to celebrate being back open for business. Not that he’d say so to this poor guy. He might take it the wrong way. Some people are funny; you give them a break and they think it’s charity and they get offended.

“What would you like today, sir?”

“I’d like a dozen of your finest white roses.”

Charley blinks. That’s a nice, high-dollar order. He certainly didn’t expect it from this fellow dressed so raggedly. “A dozen white roses?” he repeats. “I can do that, let me just make that up for you, if you don’t mind waiting for a minute.”

“In a vase,” the customer adds. “A nice one. She liked nice things.”

If it’s for a dead woman, it doesn’t much matter what kind of vase it is, especially not in The Acres. The type of people who hang out down there…a lot of thieves and vandals…he’ll be lucky if it lasts a day--not that Charley would tell him that. He needs the sale.

This brings him to an even touchier subject: the matter of payment. A dozen roses in a nice vase--with tax, that’s going to run into three figures, and that’s not the same as giving a discount on a bunch of carnations. Going over to the counter, he writes up the ticket, specifying the flowers and the vase, including prices and tax and offers it to his patron. “Was that what you had in mind?”

“Yes, that will be satisfactory.”

The man has a bit of an accent that Charley can’t quite place, and there’s an oddly precise way of speaking. Some kind of European, maybe? Hard to say. Gotham is a very cosmopolitan city; people come here from all over.

There are some good crystal vases in stock…left over from Valentine’s Day last year, because this year was a bust. He’ll be a long time recovering from the mischief those terrorists have done to his business. Gotham’s economy in general will be precarious for a while, not to mention the hooligans still on the loose or all the damage to the city’s infrastructure…Charley sighs as he builds the arrangement, adding ferns and baby’s breath from long habit.

It’s good to be working again. Concentrate on that, on building Antoine’s back up one bouquet at a time. During the blockade, people didn’t really commemorate those hundreds of deaths when they happened--too much unrest and uncertainty. Now, though, things have settled down, maybe people can be reminded gently that their loved ones deserve tribute. Perhaps he ought to run a small ad in the paper? Something tasteful, geared toward the bereaved…”In memory of your loved ones, bouquets by Antoine’s”? 

The man receives his efforts with an approving nod. “Yes, my Talia would have enjoyed those.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Charley says, the standard formula. And he is sorry, because his customer looks as if the death is one more blow on top of his other misfortunes. Even though it’s bringing him business, there’s been too much death in Gotham those last few months.

“Have you known loss?” 

“Yes, when Lucie died. She was my…business partner.”

The man stands gazing at the arrangement on the counter. “Yes, Talia was that to me…and so, so much more. I knew her all her life, she was radiant, to me she was the moon on the darkest night--” His voice breaks and he stops. Composes himself. “I should have died, not she. I would give anything to reverse the results.”

Charley nods sympathetically. Lucie’s been gone for fifteen years now, and at this point, he’s a little older now than she was when she passed, so relating to childhood sweethearts is a little beyond him. Still, sympathy is always good. 

The man offers him a sheaf of crisp twenty dollar bills from a bulging wallet, not bothering to count his change. Charley probably could have tacked on a few dollars more and the fellow wouldn’t have blinked. He may just be dressed this way because it’s safer not to look too prosperous around here. Could be he and his woman were stranded here…a lot of tourists and travelers were. During the crisis, The Acres saw a lot of new burials because there was nowhere else to put them, including people who would usually have gone into one of the fancy cemeteries across the bay.

With the cash in hand, Charley feels compelled to caution the man about his destination. 

“Be careful down in the Acres, mister. There are an awful lot of punks hanging around. They might try to roll you for that wad of dough.”

His customer stands a little straighter. Maybe he used to play football? He’s built like a linebacker. Looking more closely, Charley realizes he’s not that old. The way he moves, like he’s in pain, gives the impression of age, but he’s probably still on the sunny side of forty. His expression is severe. 

“If so, they will regret it. I have had enough taken from me.”

His tone is cold as a tombstone. Charley believes him; the guy has a kind of presence…he’s not the kind of man who’s gonna take crap from anybody.

“Thank you for your business, sir,” he says as the man pushes open the door to the street, the shop bell jingling pleasantly. He sees the fellow turns toward the Acres with his burden. Then Charley Richardsen goes about his own business.

…


End file.
